


the splinter in my fingertip

by VegaOfTheLyre



Category: The Addams Family - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaOfTheLyre/pseuds/VegaOfTheLyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gomez and Morticia meet for the first time she is nineteen and he is twenty-six; she has just returned home from finishing school in Romania, and he has come to the Frump house for a family lunch with his fiancée, her older sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the splinter in my fingertip

**Author's Note:**

> Working within a conflation of the canons! Also, offhanded Addams callousness to violence and morbidity abound, though there's nothing explicit.

When Gomez and Morticia meet for the first time she is nineteen and he is twenty-six; she has just returned home from finishing school in Romania, and he has come to the Frump house for a family lunch with his fiancée, her older sister.

The butler ushers Gomez into the library where he waits a little nervously, smoothing the rain out of his slicked-back hair, fiddling with the cravat at his chin to make sure the ruby pin gleams. He has only seen Ophelia twice before; their engagement was a thing decided upon and arranged by their relatives, and while she seems a lovely if flighty girl, he wants to show himself at his best. Gomez clasps his hands behind his back and paces the rug, stopping once to admire a great bound copy of the _Malleus Maleficarum_.

"She won't notice, you know," a low and amused voice says from the window.

Gomez's head snaps up. "I beg your pardon?"

The girl peers from behind the curtain where she is curled up in the windowseat. Her glossy black braid swings before her, and she smiles, close-lipped and slow, eyes flicking over him, up and down.

"Ophelia," she says. "You look quite splendid, but that's not the sort of thing she pays attention to in a man."

"You must be Morticia," Gomez says. Ophelia has told him some things about her little sister, and she dips her chin in acknowledgment. Morticia is not much like her sister, stately and composed; one languid hand rests still on the ankle of her buttoned boot, the other marks her place in _The Book of Lies_ , open in her lap. He indicates it with two fingers, stepping forward. "That any good?"

"Oh, it's trash," Morticia says breezily, "but Crowley does have a flair for the dramatic, doesn't he?"

"If you say so," Gomez says. He crosses his arms. "You appreciate a certain flair for the dramatic in a man, then?"

"Of a sort," Morticia says. She drops her eyes to her book again, and he smiles.

"Gomez Addams," he says.

"I know," she says, not lifting her eyes.

He clears his throat. "Yes," he says. "You like to read, then?"

"Well, it passes the time," Morticia says. She looks up at him finally and adds, "And how do you spend your days, Mr Addams?"

"Gomez," he says. He smiles. "Please. We're going to be family, after all."

Morticia nods, eyes fixed on him under half-lowered lashes. Rain drums against the warped glass at her back.

"I'm, ah—" He thinks to save 'amateur model-train enthusiast' for later. "I handle the Addams investment portfolio. That and administering to my inheritance consumes most of my time. I'm a lawyer, too; well, I dabble. Odd, I know, but it's a bit of a hobby of mine," he tells her confidentially.

"Oh?" Morticia says. She smooths her dress across her knees. "Have you won any cases?"

"Not a one," Gomez says, grinning.

"Congratulations," she murmurs.

"Why, thank you," he says, touched. He hesitates and then says: "Have you ever tried fencing before?"

The door to the library swings open again and Gomez steps away from the windowseat, smiling for his bride-to-be. Morticia turns a page in her lap and pretends to be reading intently.

"I'm ever-so sorry, Gomez, I was getting dressed," Ophelia says, her Mama at her side. She wears a crown of flowers in her curling golden hair, her blue gown a floaty thing of lace and gauze. She comes forward, and Gomez lifts her hand to his lips. "Were you waiting long?"

"Not at all," Gomez says, turning to her mother. "Eudora. Your younger daughter entertained me very nicely."

"Did she?" Ophelia says. She laughs. "She must have learned something at that school of hers. She's always been a reserved little thing—aren't you, Morticia?"

Morticia doesn't answer, mutely laying her book aside and standing. Gomez shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks his weight from heel to toe and back again.

"Come along," Mama Frump says, patting Gomez's arm, "lunch is laid. How do you like anaconda?"

"Oh, my favourite," Gomez says. Ophelia drifts out of the room with her mother, wafting the smell of rotting roses behind her, and Gomez properly holds the door for Morticia.

" _Excusez-moi_ ," Morticia murmurs as she passes him, and Gomez's heart stops, and when he draws breath at last the air is the clearest he thinks he has ever tasted.

"You speak French?" Gomez manages to choke out, and she turns back a little:

"Fluently," Morticia says.

He shivers.

  


* * *

  
Both sides of the family descend upon the Frump home for the engagement party the next evening; Gomez's parents would typically have hosted, but their deaths at the hands of a violent mob in his youth necessitate a change of venue.

In the afternoon everyone who can ride gathers for the traditional hunt. Gomez thinks he looks particularly dashing in his hunting scarlets, but Morticia puts the rest of them to shame. Her habit is black and high-collared, her braid coiled up in a bun, her hat perched rakishly on her head; she lowers the netted veil from its brim across her eyes and lets Gomez hand her up into her saddle without a word.

"You sure you won't ride, Ophelia?" Gomez says, looking back to his fiancée as he mounts.

"Oh, no, indoor sports are much more my speed," Ophelia says. Her flowers are wilting in her hair as he leans down to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Judo. Karate. Go catch me something plump and meaty, Gomez, will you?"

"Of course, my dear," Gomez says. His eyes meet Morticia's across the courtyard; her massive black stallion stamps his feet, red eyes rolling, and Morticia looks away, gloved fingers flexing on her riding crop, and gives the slavering stallion his head, tearing after the rest of the pack.

Somewhere in the distance a man screams, shrill and agonising. Gomez spurs his horse on after Morticia into the mists. "I love a blood sport, don't you?" he calls, and he swears that he can hear her laugh.

  


* * *

  
Morticia disappears two minutes into the dinner party that night, and when the guests are milling about drinking Mama's smoking concoctions and gossiping about their neighbours Gomez insinuates himself into a trio of Frump aunts, picks up one of their eyes from the floor and cleans it, asking after her off-handedly.

"And why are you asking, hmm, boy?" one of the aunts says, and they cackle.

Gomez passes her the eye crossly and peels himself away, scanning the crowd once more.

"You love her, don't you?" Ophelia says, coming up at his elbow.

Gomez freezes. He looks down at her, debates lying and dismisses it. "Well, I didn't mean to, if that helps," he says.

Ophelia smiles tragically. "Oh, it's all right. Everyone does, in the end." She fingers her golden curls, blue eyes welling but resigned. "She got the looks in the family."

Gomez sighs. "What will you do?"

"Oh—travel, I think," Ophelia says. She slips the ring off her finger and curls it into his hand. "Don't worry, Gomez. No hard feelings. I could bewitch you into marrying me if I really wanted it, but there are other men. And anyway, they'll all get the Frump-Addams marriage they want."

"If she'll have me," Gomez says. He swallows and adds, "I'm not sure if she even likes me."

Ophelia throws her head back, laughs, and floats off into the crowd.

He finds Morticia in the foyer outside the drawing room. She is leaning against the iron maiden, her sister's crown of decaying flowers in her hands, idly pulling it apart and letting the petals flutter to the tiles crushed and torn.

For the first time, her hair lies loose over her shoulders in dark gleaming waves. Gomez wants to bury his hands in it; he wants to kiss it. Morticia looks up at him, straightens, and he says, "You're missed in there, you know."

"Oh—" Morticia lets the last of the flowers tumble to the floor, brows arched high. "I'm sure I'm not."

He rolls Ophelia's engagement ring out into his palm, a delicate circle of bone and onyx. Morticia looks at it and at him.

"She gave it back," Gomez says. "It's yours, if you want it."

She inhales: breathes in, then out, and says, "That's a little gauche, don't you think? Something silver, maybe. I'll send out in the morning."

He lays it aside on a table and lifts her hand in his. "Querida," he breathes, pressing a kiss into her palm.

Morticia's gaze is thoughtful. "You never called my sister that," she says, curling her fingers against his mouth.

"No," Gomez agrees.

Back in the drawing room the string quartet slides into the unmistakable opening bars of a tango. Gomez, still holding Morticia's hand, raises an eyebrow and says, "Do you dance, cara mia?"

" _Cara mia_ ," she says, turning the syllables over in her mouth. Her black eyes are bright. "That's lovely. And of course I dance; what do you think I was doing, all those years in Romania?"

" _Well_ ," Gomez says, thinking of her pale skin, her red lips.

Morticia smiles and doesn't respond. Instead, she leads him across the hall and onto the dancefloor, her hips swaying. "You asked before if I fence," she says over her shoulder.

Gomez's heart sings as he spins her out and then back into his arms. "Yes," he says as her skirts twirl about his legs. "Do you know how to handle a sword?"

She traces the line of his jaw with her sharp thumbnail before settling her free hand on his arm. "Yes, but I'm a much bigger fan of knives, _mon sauvage_ ," she whispers in his ear, and he sighs and drops his forehead against hers

"French," he says.

"You like it?" she says.

He twists his head to kiss her shoulder and then presses their joined hands into his chest over his heart as they step together into the dance.


End file.
